


The Rope Trick

by facetofcathy



Category: Leverage
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-03
Updated: 2009-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facetofcathy/pseuds/facetofcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene for 1.09, The Snow Job.  Eliot takes a stab at dealing with Nate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rope Trick

"Short conversation," Eliot said.

Sophie didn't start at his voice; she was way too cool, too professional, to let him rattle her. Maybe he should take some lessons, because he wasn't quiet so calm these days. He was letting Nate rattle him, good and proper. If he had any fucking sense he'd go find the right sort of bar where he could get in a fight—get his balance back.

Sophie stepped a little closer, let the weak light of the hotel hallway light her face. She looked him right in the eye. "He's fine," she said evenly.

Eliot laughed. Hell, if he wanted a woman to lie to him, he could go get his own. Maybe that's just what he should do too, go find a different sort of bar, find some woman to lie to him, tell him how wonderful he was. Nothing like the feel of long slender fingers running through his hair, soft lips, sleek skin—just the thing to cure what ached inside.

"Leave him to me, Eliot," she said as she walked away,"I know how to handle him."

"Do you, now," he said to the empty hallway. "Because so far, it's not workin' out so good."

Eliot had been to Miami before. He'd been a lot of places before—places with bright lights and easy money, places with dark alleys and easy violence. So he figured Miami was just his sort of place, because it had all of that, and he didn't doubt his ability to find all kinds of trouble out there in the big, bad city.

He pushed off the wall in the shadowed alcove he'd been waiting in, waiting to see how long it would take Nate to drive Sophie out of his room. He felt the anger burn through his body, adrenaline still making him jumpy. _Go skip some rope_, the fucker had said, and damn, but he'd wanted to feel his fist connect with that smug drunken smirk. He wanted to feel the slap of his flesh against skin, feel the skin break open and the slick of blood, smell the tang of fear.

He slammed the door of his room closed, hoping someone would come to complain. He started muttering, running through his repertoire of insults guaranteed to start a fight while he tore through his suitcase, dumping out his clothes and feeling around for the catch for the false bottom. He switched to Spanish and kept up the litany of profanity and abuse, imagining his target—some big guy, because a guy with a good eight or ten inches on him was always more satisfying. He could feel his fist connect with toned muscles, feel his knuckles slide along sweat-slick skin. He pulled a coil of nylon rope out of the hidden compartment in his suitcase. He could picture the moment when his imaginary opponent went down and he followed, flesh impacting flesh, cocky sneer giving way to the look of capitulation.

Eliot tucked the rope under his arm and fished out his wallet. He strode back out into the hallway, heels clicking on the cool marble floor, and he pulled out the key-card he'd talked Hardison into making for him. He'd known it was all going to go to hell; he'd known that the first damn day they talked about this damn job—Nate drunk and hung over both, sucking back what he wanted everyone to think was coffee. He'd known there was not a snowball's chance in hell this job wasn't going to go up in smoke, and the lit match was going to be in Nate's drunken hand. He let Nate's door slam behind him too.

"What is this, a tag team?" Nate said, still in the same damn chair, glass in hand, eyes drooping and looking halfway to insensible.

"Your idea, Nate," Eliot said, and he never paused, just kept on going, not stopping until he was standing between Nate's sprawled-out legs.

"What, the rope?" Nate said, tipping a look at the neat coil tucked under Eliot's arm.

"No, the whole damn team thing, Nate." Eliot snatched the glass out of Nate's hand, threw it across the room, liquor splashing against the marble. Not the first time Nate would get a damage bill from a hotel, Eliot was sure. "You got us all tied up together, and now you think you can push until we let loose?" Eliot hauled Nate up by his shirtfront, fingers twisting into the cloth, the damn hat tumbling to the floor, and a fully sober Nate couldn't have resisted him. He started dragging Nate toward the bedroom, and Nate just stumbled along with him, eyes dull and a stupid smirk twisting his lips. "Time you figured something out. Hard as you push, I can always push back harder."

Eliot swung Nate around and shoved him hard, and Nate just let himself bounce on the bed, arms splayed out. He started laughing, derisive and cruel and a little manic. Eliot grabbed Nate's arms and wrapped his wrists with a few deft twists of the rope. He hauled Nate bodily up the bed and secured the rope to the iron headboard. Funny how the more expensive the hotel, the more likely they'd have the right kind of bedroom furniture. Easier than roping a horse, he had Nate securely tied. He sat back on his heels, heedless of his boots on the bedding, and let Nate watch him with cold, almost dead, eyes.

"Never pegged you for the kinky type, Eliot," Nate said, and sneered faintly. "Somehow, you always seemed like the classic vanilla guy who likes 'em blonde and not too bright and never calls back—which makes you a bit of a jerk—but this seems to be a bit out of your comfort zone."

"I'm perfectly comfortable," Eliot said, which was mostly a lie, but he could play a mark too. "And don't make the mistake of thinking you know everything about me." Nate tugged against the ropes, and Eliot smiled. "You're not going anywhere until you sober up."

Eliot slid one leg back off the bed, he had his eyes on Nate, never saw a single tell, and shit, the man had been damn near falling down drunk, but he still got a leg out and hooked around Eliot's, and Eliot was crashing forward, falling onto the bed, and Nate had both legs around him now, tight around his thighs. Nate twisted, tried to pin him, but there wasn't enough slack in the rope, and Eliot had his arms free and a whole hell of a lot of strength on his side. He got Nate flat on his back again, and Nate was going to have bruises in the morning—on his wrists and on his arms where Eliot had him held fast. Nate was panting and flushed under him, and his gaze didn't look quite so chill—more like hot and angry, electric blue. Eliot smiled, moved one hand to set it over Nate's pounding heart. "You too drunk, Nate?" Eliot felt the beat pounding steady under his palm. "Wouldn't that be a cryin' shame, now, if the first chance you get for a little action with someone who doesn't want a damn ring on their finger, and you're too damn drunk to get it up?"

"That what you're really after, Eliot?" Nate said, and then he ground up with his hips, wrapping his legs tighter around Eliot, sliding one up to curve around his waist.

"Why the hell not, Nate. Maybe that's just what you need—something in your mouth besides the neck of a damn whiskey bottle."

Nate narrowed his eyes, calculating. "You going to do anything besides talk about it?"

"You want it?" Eliot said, letting go of the taunting tone a bit and trying for an honest answer.

Nate just smiled, still more than a little bitter, and ground up against him again. Eliot could see the muscles tense and flex under the thin shirt Nate was wearing. He'd got his hands on the rope, holding on the slack length that ran from his wrists to the iron slats of the headboard, giving him some leverage. Nate ground up again; he was hard, despite all the liquor in his gut. He kept his eyes on Eliot's face. "What've you got, Eliot?" he said.

Eliot flashed the grin he used on the blondes in the bars and flexed his thighs open, breaking Nate's hold easily. He finished his aborted slide back off the bed, and stood and looked down at Nate, spread out and flushed, hands tight around the rope. Eliot opened the buttons on his shirt, slowly, deliberately; he let the shirt fall off his shoulders and then reached down and popped the button on his jeans, let the denim droop down his hips a little. He knew what he looked like; he'd seen the hungry, wanting looks more times than he could count. He courted them. He bent down and yanked off his boots, let them clatter to the floor. He slid his hand down the front of his pants, watched Nate follow the movement with his eyes, watched Nate watching while he slid his pants over his hips and kicked them aside. Watched Nate watching while he slid down his underwear and casually ran a hand along his cock. Watched Nate lick his lips, and he didn't have a clue whether Nate was playing him or not.

"You want me to fuck you, Nate?" he said, and he waited and watched.

Nate's gaze flicked up to his face and then away again. "No," he said, looking Eliot in the eye, watching and waiting himself, arms flexing again as he shifted his grip on the rope, and Eliot was a little relieved; he was figuring on something a little more straightforward.

Eliot stalked over to the bed, got his hands on Nate's shirt again and ripped it open. Nate didn't flinch, didn't miss a beat with his rapid breaths. Eliot ran his fingernails down Nate's chest—hard—leaving white trails that bloomed to red, and he worked open Nate's fly and yanked off his pants and underwear, pausing only to toss his shoes across the room, before he had Nate spread out, mostly naked, still just watching him with his expression closed off and gaze shuttered; his hard cock was the only evidence of his interest. Eliot pulled open the nightstand, not surprised to find a few supplies handy. Nate was a careful guy—a guy who planned ahead. There was a fifth of whiskey nestled in beside the lube. Eliot twisted open the cap and raised the bottle in a mock salute before he tossed back a measure that burned all the way down. He let the bottle clatter back inside the drawer and opened the lube. He slicked himself up, shuddering when the cold gel touched his hot flesh.

Eliot climbed onto the bed, shoving Nate's legs wide apart and kneeling between them. He lowered himself slowly, eyes locked on Nate's face, searching for a tell, a clue, some flicker of emotion that would give Eliot some firmer ground under his feet. He saw nothing but a mirror of his own intense scrutiny. With one hand on either side of Nate's bound arms, Eliot slowly dipped lower, hissing when his cock brushed against flesh, and touched his tongue lightly to Nate's bottom lip. "You want a taste?" he said, letting his breath waft warm whiskey scent over Nate's face.

"Yeah, I want a taste," Nate said, voice a harsh rasp giving away everything his blank face had kept hidden.

Eliot let his lips part and he descended, licking at Nate's lips and nipping with teeth. Nate let him, parted his own lips, and they were soft, almost slack, and Eliot fell right in to the soft yielding mouth. He settled himself slowly, letting his slick cock slip and slide against Nate while he plundered that mouth and Nate just let him. It was more torment than tease, not enough friction, not enough heat—Nate too pliant beneath him. Eliot pulled his mouth away, searching again, unsure for the first time that this was anything but the worst of his bad ideas.

"That's real nice, Eliot," Nate said, and tilted his head, inviting a reply.

Eliot snorted, and was going to say something equally cutting, but he saw the muscles ripple in Nate's arms, so he couldn't say he didn't see it coming, but Nate had him wrapped tight in strong, long legs, and he pulled Eliot down hard and tight against him. Nate flexed up into him and that was not nice at all; that was slick tight heat, and Eliot groaned quietly and then not so quietly when Nate repeated the move. He was trapped in a vice, his arms free, but nothing else, and Nate, bound to the bed, was suddenly very much in charge.

"Fuck," Eliot said.

"Give me your mouth," Nate said in his boss-man voice, so Eliot did.

He let Nate plunge his tongue in deep, and maybe Nate was chasing the taste of whiskey, and maybe he just thought driving Eliot wild might be fun. He sure as hell knew just how to flex and shimmy his hips to maximum effect. His heels were digging into Eliot's thighs, and Eliot was just hanging on for the ride. He was regretting the rope, couldn't stop thinking that those long hard fingers of Nate's gripped tight in his hair might be just what he needed right now, because he had nothing to keep him from flying apart and just coming hard. He pretty much melted into Nate, burying his face into Nate's sweaty neck and whispering curses as Nate slowed down and thrust easily through the hot mess slicking his way. The sensations quickly went past too much and into never, ever enough, and Eliot needed Nate to stop right now, and he wanted it to go on forever. His pounding heart was slowing, he was coming down, crashing even though he seemed too high still, and Nate finally, finally moaned out a curse and stuttered through a few more twisting trusts against Eliot's limp body. Nate dropped his legs to the bed, and Eliot rolled sideways, easing the pressure on his abused dick.

Eliot let himself drift, listening to Nate's ragged breathing slow down, while he stared at the ceiling. When he wanted to, when he could, he pushed himself to his feet and padded into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror while he washed off the sticky accumulation of lube and come. There wasn't a mark on him. It didn't seem right—no bruises, no sign of teeth, nothing.

He collected up his clothes and dressed, not looking over at the body on the bed—at Nate. He didn't want to know if his gaze had gone cold and dead again, didn't want to search for clues he'd probably never find. He pulled his knife out of his boot and cut through the rope with one neat slice. "Get yourself cleaned up, Nate," he said, still not meeting his eyes. He grabbed the whiskey out of the nightstand drawer and shoved the bottle in his pocket.

His room was just how he left it, but it was the work of minutes to carefully pack his gear away. He fitted the false bottom back into the suitcase, and it all looked just as innocent as it had before. He made a mental note to pick up another hunk of rope in the morning. Parker likely had some. He looked down at his fist, clenched tight. He should have gone out, gone to the right kind of bar, found the right kind of trouble, made do with the blood-slicked slide of fists against flesh. It had always worked before.


End file.
